


Black Hole Confessions

by OffYourBird



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: The abandoned house was crumbling and unsteady, really no better than the idea of a house now that its usefulness was outlived. But it hadn’t been allowed to die… until a Slayer and a vampire took it down.An alternate look at the Smashed house metaphor.





	Black Hole Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> This little piece sat about 2/3 completed on my computer for six-ish months, and is dedicated to the amazing thenewbuzwuzz, who inspired me to finish it.

The first time – when Buffy impaled herself on Spike with a gasp and the simple, violent destruction of a belt buckle – his mouth didn’t say a word. She kept it too busy, marking his soft lips with hard, bruising intention. But she couldn’t keep his eyes from speaking. They were writing rambling, euphoric verses in her name, in some long-winded and unmetered script that battered relentlessly at her defenses.

That kind of awe should have been outlawed for an evil creature.

But then, outlawing anything pretty much assured that Spike would do it. Anything she didn’t want, everything she refused to tell him, he’d tell her twofold instead.

When his mouth finally broke free of hers, he did exactly that. He peppered her jaw and her throat and her breasts with the most terrible mix of words that made her feel simultaneously like some kind of wanton whore and the second coming of Jesus.

“You have the most divine cunt, Buffy. Could squeeze a bloke to death with it. Oh yeah, just like that. Do it again, luv. It’s perfect. Can’t wait to bury my mouth down there – bet I could do it forever. Won’t though. No no, don’t worry, going to do it plenty. But there’s more. God, I need forever to see to you. But we’ll make do. Going to make your gorgeous body so utterly fucked. I promise you that, Slayer.”

She wanted to punch him until he shut up. She wanted him to never stop talking. The building came down around his voice, carrying her and him and them with it. She was being consumed by him, eaten alive by feeling, all of her nerve-endings singing with rapture and torture and the unbearable sensation of being alive. Except he was suddenly making it bearable, through this strange concoction of hate and ecstasy. He made her feel… safe.

And that was so, so wrong. Of all the things she shouldn’t feel with him, safe was at the top of the list. This – all of this pressing skin and desperate pleasure – had to be meaningless.

Except, she wasn’t the kind of girl who did meaningless sex, and every moment that his body was a piece of hers made the assertion more of a lie. And that was the problem. This meant  _everything_. All the things she didn’t want it to, all the things she knew he was hoping for and telling her about with those damningly blue eyes and that whisky dark voice of his. And god, he was screwing her like a man, no demon in sight, all the truth of his fangs and his evil locked straight away; except that he stroked her with the devil’s tongue and the devil’s fingers and she didn’t know where she was, except that it was heaven and hell all rolled into one. And everything inside her was rocketed up and down, and stretched thin, and brought to the edge and back again so many times and in so many ways that, eventually, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

She fought him, or stopped fighting him, sometime during the third– no, fifth time. All their bruising kisses and scratching violence turned into something else that she wanted to believe was exhaustion but was really just all her anger and hate and fear leached into the broken house around them. Ambient, but outside. No longer hers alone to keep. No longer private and bubbling.

But it wasn’t allowed to be gone. Because there was nothing else left if those pieces were all swept away. Nothing but numbness and exhaustion and loss.

But even as she thought it, she found it wasn’t true. Spike was stroking something inside of her as he thrust into her – leaving pieces of his want for her and all the feelings that he shouldn’t have and wasn’t allowed to have but somehow did. How could she deny them when he was filling her with them? He was letting them sink into her skin to claim for her own, and she took them greedily.

It was almost laughable. She was being given something alive by a dead man. But then, she’d been dead, too. What did that make them together? Ghosts forced into flesh? Neither of them was meant to still exist. She clung to him and found she was shaking; Spike simply wrapped her more closely in his arms, like a child. She hadn’t even known they were embracing.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” His voice was a siren song, drawing her in, impaling her and coaxing her, even as he possessed her entirely. “Gonna make it alright.”

That’s what she was afraid of.

“Wrong,” she gasped, as he drew down her body, tracing it like a map where only he knew the destination. “I’m wrong.”

He stilled, even his breath gone back to non-existent. Inhuman. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered against her skin. “Don’t know why I can– but it’s not because of that. If you’re wrong, it’s only because you aren’t supposed to be here, luv. Only because this place isn’t worthy of you anymore.”

Tears gathered in the edges of her eyes – furious and agonizing. “Then why can’t I leave?”

There was no answer for a long time, just the simple plunging of his fingers and the terrible pleasure of his mouth as he made love to her skin. Then, finally, “We’re all selfish bastards, Buffy.”

“I don’t want to be here,” she whispered, pulling him up from between her thighs, and covering herself in him against the dark of the ground and the house and this black hole they’d made. She could tell the truth in a black hole; nothing made its way out.

She felt the sharp intake of his breath, something that sounded almost tortured against her throat. “I know, pet. I know.”

She flipped them over abruptly, her legs unyielding around his waist. Not that he was fighting her – he didn’t even look discomforted, even though she knew the pressure of her hold would have made a normal man whimper in pain.

It made her pause. Here she’d thought she was surrendering to him – against everything she was – but how could she, when he’d already surrendered to her years ago? “I don’t understand,” she managed softly as she rode him, voice barely audible above the din of the dark and dismantling house.

Spike ran a long-fingered hand through her hair, his eyes steady and tender. “I’m yours,” he said hoarsely, with the edge of a growl. “Always yours.  _I love you_.” His mouth quirked slightly. “But it’s not about that.”

“It’s not?”

“Course not.” He glanced down to where they were joined, his cock rhythmically disappearing into her. “It’s about this.”

She frowned, pausing in her motions. “Sex?” The thought should’ve been a relief – that this was just superficial physical relief in a place where everything had been painful. But it wasn’t.

“Connection,” Spike corrected, and she stared at him. He stared back, thrusting up into her and making her mewl in pleasure. “Because that’s heaven, innit? You knew it all, got it all, didn’t need for a thing.”

The constant, swelling ache of loss pounded like a drumbeat in her chest. “Not a thing.”

“Well, I can’t promise that,” he said softly, rolling them over until he was on top again, thrusting into her deep and slow. “But I can give you this. It’s a poor trade, I know, luv, but if it helps at all, we’ll go every night with a bit of knock-down and drag-out.”

Sudden tears prickled at the edges of her eyes and she angrily blinked them away. Even if she trusted her voice at the moment, no words were coming. Instead, she arched herself into his embrace and kissed him with fierce desperation. Then the words came anyway, spilling out of her without her consent, rambling and broken and filled with all the things Spike was never supposed to hear.

“It’s so hard,” she gasped. “So hard. And I keep waiting for it to be less hard – and it doesn’t happen. And now you’re the only one trying to help and it doesn’t make any sense and it’s not okay.” She was sobbing and hiccupping now and everything was blurred. “It’s not okay.”

Kisses feathered across her collarbone and down to the edges of her wrists and fingers, nipping at the callouses there, softening them, as if Spike could wipe away all the death that dwelled there – hers and his and the multitude of days she’d done nothing but deal in blood and death and dust.

As if he was trying to make her anew.

And god help her, but she was letting him.

 

***

 

She woke in a blind panic, disoriented and terrified, to a watercolor of rubble and filtered sunlight.

“Hey now, settle down, lamb.” Strong arms pulled her back into a naked lap, cool lips at her throat.

She let her hands slide down her sides to clutch Spike’s thighs, her heart still fluttering in her throat. “We tore the house down.”

“Good riddance. The thing was barely standing. Better off this way.”

Buffy swallowed, unable to turn and look at the face she knew was likely watching hers intently. “It’s broken now.”

“Was broken before. Now at least some poor sod can come and build over it.” The edge to his voice told her he understood the dual conversation perfectly. “The base is solid. It’ll keep.”

Her eyes darted around the wreckage, dancing from the snapped boards to the crumbled plaster and lingering finally on the dust motes cascading through the filthy air, lit into gold as stray beams of sun found them. “Yeah. It will.”


End file.
